


Blue Boys

by glinda4thegood



Category: The Lone Gunmen (TV), The X-Files
Genre: Gen, Post All About Yves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:53:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28073508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glinda4thegood/pseuds/glinda4thegood
Summary: Disclaimer, warning: Jump The Shark never happened. Never. Gilligan/Shiban/Spotnitz, you douchebags.Dedicated to Gunfen everywhere. You know who you are.
Kudos: 2





	Blue Boys

_Blue (boys) come in every size  
Some are wise and some otherwise ...  
For an hour a man may change  
For an hour (his) face looks strange_  
**RIPPLES** \- with apologies to _Genesis_

**SIXTEENTH FLOOR, FENIX ATLANTIC CORPORATION**

_No matter how paranoid you are …_

They’d had good teachers. They’d had good object lessons, They’d put in the lab time. It would be logical to assume, Frohike thought, flexing his wrists against the metal restraints that held his hands behind his back, that when it came time for the midterm, they’d ace the bitch.

“She doesn’t seem to have your disc, sir.” 

One of the soldier boys gave Yves’ a last, lingering grope, then backed off. They’d all been examined as thoroughly as possible, short of a strip search and unnatural consummation of the cavity-probe kind. Frohike hoped they would move the party before anything this intimate was suggested. He caught Byers’ eyes as one of Fletcher’s government goons gave him a push. 

Byers made a slight gesture toward their bags.

“Hey, man. At least take our equipment with," Frohike said. "Langly’d like to be buried next to that laptop.” 

Morris Fletcher’s enormous shit-eating smile stretched a centimeter larger. He waved a hand at one of the soldiers. “Get ‘em out of here, and bring that junk along. I’ll get a kick out of watching them drive your rustbucket van over Langly’s precious laptop.”

They crowded into the elevator, propelled by professionally rough hands.

“Face first, against the wall.”

The suggestion was accompanied by another push. From the corner of his eye Frohike could see Byers, Langly and Yves beyond in similar positions, noses hard against the back of the elevator.

“I’m sorry, boys.” Yves’ voice sounded naked, vulnerable. “I never wanted --”

“You never _wanted_ what, exactly?” Morris interrupted with a laugh. “Nobody ever told you that it wasn’t nice for little girls to steal things?”

“She’s been told.” 

The nameless man who had accompanied Fletcher into the vault stood behind Langly. Frohike could just see the gloating expression on his face as he stared at Yves’ back. Not a government goon, but something else altogether. He carried himself with an arrogance that seemed to indicate he might be in another branch of the security profession. Probably a European branch. Smarmy, but dangerous, Frohike decided.

“She has seen firsthand what kind of retribution can be visited on a thief,” Mr. Smarm said.

“Bastard. Murdering bastard.” Yves' voice was unrecognizable.

“Who is he, Yves?” Frohike asked.

“He’s nothing.” Emotion drained from her voice. She lay her cheek against the metal wall and closed her eyes.

Smarm laughed, a shallow, social _ha-ha_ that made Frohike want to grind the man’s face into the elevator floor. 

“We’ll see who’s nothing, my dear.” The elevator opened. “You will want to search them properly. I assume you have a suitable interrogation room?” Smarm followed Fletcher into the hallway.

“Sure.” Fletcher glanced back and winked. “I’ll bet you and the boys enjoy those full body cavity searches, eh Melvin?”

“And I can take possession of the woman?”

“Patience, my good man.” Fletcher nodded at one of the soldiers. “Outside. Move them.”

The trip out went much faster than the trip in. The fancy set up for facial recognition was standing wide open, like the window dressing it was.

“They don’t have the disc,” Yves said. “It’s long gone. There’s nothing you can do to get it back.”

“Nothing?” Fletcher started to laugh. “You mean I can just blow Melvin’s brains all over the pavement, and that won’t get my disc back?”

“Think before you answer, Yves,” Frohike said. 

A soldier held the outer entry door open. They left the building for the night air.

“It’s gone. Disposed of.” Yves shrugged. “Killing them won’t get it back.”

“I’m not 100 percent sure of that yet,” Fletcher smiled, “and at the very least, it would make me so freaking happy. It beats the heck out of me why you even care what happens to these science fair rejects. Soldier -- turn them so I can see their faces.”

They were still inside the fence surrounding the building entrance. Frohike could see the van down the street, empty and dark. This was the hard part. He had feared Jimmy would do something stupid, like track them down and put himself in harm’s way. But it looked like he’d worried for nothing. 

One of the gorillas grabbed him and held him facing Fletcher. 

“Stronger deodorant, buddy.” Frohike managed a credible sneer. “It’s like the lady says, we don’t have your disc.”

“Surely you’re not going to do this out here?” Smarm glanced beyond at the street.

“No spectators here. Quiet as the grave.” Fletcher paced in front of them. He stopped when he got to Langly and tapped his finger in the middle of his lenses. “Doesn’t it drive you nuts when someone touches your glasses?”

“Stop. Stop,” Langly rolled his eyes, “I’ll tell you whatever you want to know. Just don’t throw me in that briar patch.”

“Very funny.” Fletcher waved at the gate. “Open it. We’ll take them somewhere more conducive to muffled screams and gunshots.”

“Your bedroom?” Frohike got in one last barb before he was wrenched into the street with military aid.

“Good one, Melvin. Hey -- you,” Fletcher pulled a gun from under his arm, and waved at one of the soldiers. “I’ve got this covered. You can take off.”

“But our orders were to --”

“Take your orders from me? Right?” Fletcher shook his head in an exaggerated sign of affirmation. “Right, soldier?”

“Right. Sir. But there’s four of them, and two of you, and you’re the only one armed, sir.”

“Not to worry. Your relief is on its way -- and here it is!”

The shit-eating smile was back. Frohike saw two cat-suited figures materialize out of the darkness behind the van.

“Fletcher. Who are they?” 

Smarm didn’t sound like a happy camper. But then, Frohike was willing to bet the guy was more the safari type. He pushed against the handcuffs again, contemplatively, wondering how anyone might find this kind of restraint arousing. It made him nuts. His nose itched.

“Special forces. As you can see, they’re armed. I’ll be in touch when I get the disc back. Just give me the laptop.” Fletcher took the computer and tucked it under one arm. “Go, go. None of you want to witness what we have to do now.”

“Yes, sir!” The soldier saluted sharply, turned on the ball of his foot and left. The rest of the goons followed silently.

“If we cuddle, I think we can all fit in the van,” Fletcher said. “If I remember correctly, the Guinness Book of World Records has them getting over twice this many people into a Beetle.” He nodded at the black figures. One of them turned and walked down the alley. The other got into the driver’s seat.

It was a tight, warm fit. Byers and Langly got pushed up against the back wall, and he and Yves were just behind the front seats. Smarm got in next to the driver. Fletcher sat down just behind them.

“Cozy.” Fletcher tapped the driver on the shoulder. “Go.”

“I want to get her somewhere safe tonight,” Smarm said. “I trust your men are effective interrogators.”

“I’ll let you make up your own mind about that,” Fletcher grinned, turned sideways and surveyed the interior of the van. “I can’t tell you how happy I am right now.”

“Glad you are, you dick. My hands are gonna fall off and I can’t breathe.”

“Don’t enjoy it too much,” Frohike warned Fletcher, ignoring Langly’s muffled complaint. 

“Whatever you say, Thorin.” Fletcher groped in his overcoat and brought out a small cylinder attached to a trigger. “Ever seen anything like this? They took it off Catwoman.” He nodded in Yves' direction.

“Of course.” Smarm sniffed. “Standard issue, compressed air, probably contains what the lab boys call knockout juice.”

“Nifty.” Fletcher raised his eyebrows. “I wish we had more toys like this. How long does it last?”

“An hour, maybe two, depending on body weight. It’s a short-term solution.” Smarm frowned. “It’s part of her stolen equipment. I’ll return it.”

Fletcher turned the cylinder over and over, squinting at it. “Well, okay then,” he said finally. “I guess if you want it ... “ He offered it, casually, in his outstretched hand.

“Yes.” Smarm took the cylinder. His eyes went huge with surprise as it hissed against his wrist. “Fletcher? What the?”

“Nifty.” 

Frohike watched the cylinder vanish back into Fletcher’s overcoat. “You ought to be an actor, Walt.”

The replica of Morris Fletcher frowned and leaned toward him. “You’re still wearing cuffs, Frohike, and you’re still exhibiting dangerous behavior. I’ve told you not to call me Walt.”

“What’s going on?” Yves asked. “Frohike?”

For the first time Frohike heard fear in her voice, and it was the fear of sudden hope.

“It’s okay, Yves. That isn’t Morris Fletcher ... it’s Walter Freaking Skinner. And the guy in the driver’s seat --” The ski mask was coming off as he spoke. Frohike nodded, wishing he could give them both a big thumb’s up. “Agent Doggett. Buds extraordinaire. Thanks, guys! Mulder is driving the car behind us.”

“I don’t think being one of your buds is in my best interest,” Doggett grumbled.

“It might grow on you,” Skinner said. “I don’t know anything about your taste in videos, but I’ve heard that Melvin here has a collection that would bring tears to the eyes of a dedicated connoisseur."

“I watch sports, sir.” Doggett shook his head. 

“So do I.” Skinner laughed. “Mulder tells me that when you’ve been working a little longer on the X-Files, nothing gets you over an encounter with a slimy egg-laying alien parasite like a couple of hours watching the nude women’s basketball league.”

“Cut the bull and get these cuffs off me,” Langly yelled. “My right hand has gone numb.”

“I don’t understand,” Yves said. “I thought you needed me.”

“Needed you to walk in and offer your butt on a platter?” Frohike shook his head. “I’m really sorry, Yves. This has been a two-way failure to communicate. You’ve known me long enough to know you can trust me. I may have misjudged you occasionally, but I would have listened to an explanation.”

“Knowing would have placed you in danger.” 

He could hardly hear her voice. Frohike turned toward her. He held his hands up and looked back over his shoulder. “Now would be a good time to take these off, Mister Assistant Director.” He watched Yves’ face as Skinner released the cuffs. “Sugar, we laugh at danger.”

“Speak for yourself,” Langly pushed past.

“Yeah. He pisses himself at danger,” Doggett contributed, deadpan.

“Oh bite me,” Langly said, “and give me the laptop. We aren’t out of this yet.”

“No. We’re not.” Frohike pushed up beside Skinner, reached over the seat, and began going through Smarm’s pockets. “I’d say we’ve made a good start, though.” From the corner of his eye he saw Skinner itching at his neck. “Don’t mess up the latex, Walt. We may still need Fletcher. We don’t have Jimmy with us yet.”

“He should be back at your office. Safe,” Yves said. “I hit him with the atomizer and told Kimmy to take him home.”

“Clever woman.” Frohike was surprised by the relief he felt. Jimmy had, somehow, grown on him in the last few weeks. He’d felt like shit misleading and ignoring the kid, but all things considered it would probably end up being a valuable lesson for Jimmy. It had been for them. Always go with your gut feeling, Frohike thought. “Let’s hope Kimmy did what you told him.”

“If he didn’t, I’ll find him,” Yves said. “When are you going to explain all of this?”

“Soon.” Frohike leafed through Smarm’s wallet, finding nothing, thinking hard. “A few precautions, a different locale, and we’ll have a chat. The disc had nothing to do with the Maheren Project, did it?”

“No.” Yves moved past Langly and offered her hands. “It contains Fletcher’s records on a government sponsored alien abductee program.”

“Who has it now?”

“Jimmy.” Yves let Skinner take the cuffs and turned to face him. “I was going to give it to Mulder.”

Frohike sighed. “You know what they say about good intentions.” 

Yves just looked at him. “I hope they’re wrong,” she said finally.

**LONE GUNMEN HEADQUARTERS**

A spiky-haired cherub was asleep on the couch. Kimmy was nowhere to be found.

They moved through the offices like quick, silent burglars, ascertaining that Jimmy was the only body in the place. Everything looked untouched, but they lacked time for a thorough sweep. Frohike wanted them in and out in minutes. 

Jimmy retrieval went smoothly. Mulder grabbed one end, Doggett the other, and between them carried him up the stairs into the alley.

“Come on.” Frohike saw Yves stare at the van as Byers and Langly walked away from it, carrying Smarm in the same fashion. “We don’t have time to make sure it’s completely clean.” He hurried to keep up with Mulder and Doggett. “You made sure your cars -- ?”

“Skinner made me go over them three times,” Doggett complained. “I suspect he’s grooming himself for Kersh’s job. He’s a natural supervisor.”

“Been there. Done that,” The mask of Fletcher’s face once again beamed at Frohike. “Have you noticed? Doggett is uncannily observant for a field agent.”

“I’ve noticed. Where’s Fletcher?”

“He’s in Skinner’s trunk.” Mulder waved the keys in the air. “I’m driving.”

“How far do we have to carry this stiff?” Langly yelled. “Mulder?”

“Another block.”

The cars were parked next to each other on a dark stretch of street. While Skinner helped Byers cram Smarm into Doggett’s back seat, Frohike and Mulder slid Jimmy into Skinner’s car. 

“Langly, front seat. Yves, in the back. I’m riding with Mulder,” Frohike shouted to Byers. “After you.” He motioned Yves into the center, next to Jimmy. He wasn’t going to risk having her try a crazy bail on them once they got on the road. She’d been thinking, Frohike could see the signs. It scared him a little. Women who thought that hard were apt to produce work-intensive, uncomfortable “to do” lists, and he had enough on his own list without additions from Yves.

“When you talk to us, it’s going to be the truth, and nothing but the truth,” Frohike said as he sat down next to her. “It’s going to take a combined effort to wrap this mother up clean and tidy, no sword of Damocles left in our lives. If you aren’t up for that, too freaking bad. Get up for it.”

She didn’t answer, but he heard her take a deep breath. From the corner of his eye Frohike saw her touch Jimmy’s knee. 

It had been obvious for some time that Jimmy had a crush on Yves. This was the first indication Frohike had seen that the feeling might be reciprocated. The idea was, upon first inspection, ludicrous. Upon second inspection, taking into account that most of what Yves had shown them of herself was an invented character, the idea was still ludicrous. But -- men and women, birds and bees, yin and yang -- Jimmy and Yves. Frohike tried the pair out in his imagination, and found he could make a case either way. Mother Nature was a stand-up comedian, after all, and those two would provide rich material for years of routines. He let speculation slip away as Mulder fiddled with the radio and fought with Langly over choice of a station.

“Are we there yet?” 

Mulder had won the battle of the radio and Langly was sulking. 

“Not long now.” Mulder grinned at Frohike in the rear view mirror. “He doesn’t like Phil Collins? Go figure.” He turned up the volume and sang along.

If singing is what you’d call Mulder’s Rex Harrison stylings, Frohike thought with reluctant affection.

_The face that launched a thousand ships, is sinking fast . . . that happens you know_

His own face itched fiercely. Frohike rubbed at the stiffened blue paint. It was time for them all to come clean.

**FBI SAFEHOUSE**

The FBI safehouse Skinner had selected seemed to be just that. It had an exterior alarm system that would be adequate for the short time they needed to be there. At least, Frohike hoped that was the way it would go down. He wanted to be back in his own bed before morning.

Mulder and Doggett stood guard as Skinner fished Fletcher out of the trunk, threw him over his shoulder and led the parade into the house. Yves helped Frohike get Jimmy out of the car and up the walk. It was a struggle, the kid was heavier than he looked. Byers and Langly brought up the rear with Smarm.

Once inside, Skinner made a beeline for stairway. “Check and secure the perimeter, civilian,” Skinner yelled over his shoulder. 

Frohike saw Mulder thumb his nose and go back outside. Doggett disappeared toward the interior.

They eased Jimmy to the floor to rest against the staircase.

“I really need a shower,” Langly whined, two steps behind them. He had his hands under Smarm’s shoulders. “How come we get stuck with Mr. Deadweight?” 

“Quit complaining?” Byers was irritated. He had hold of Smarm under the knees. “I’ve been kneed in the chest twice.”

“Why don’t you both take an arm and Pooh Bear him up the stairs?” Frohike asked, laughing at them. “He won’t feel anything.”

“I think you need to put them both down for the night.” Yves broke the silence she’d maintained in the car. “They’re cranky.”

“I’m glad you’re getting your spunk back,” Frohike said as they rounded the stairway landing. “You’re going to need it." He stopped and stared at Skinner's handiwork. "Doesn’t he look natural. Good work, Walt. Can you go get Jimmy? You did such a nice job with Fletcher.”

Skinner snorted and headed back downstairs.

Morris Fletcher glared at them from the bed. He had been stripped down to his boxers. He was double cuffed to the headboard. His mouth was covered with duct tape.

“Man. That’s really gonna hurt when they pull it off.” Langly finally found something cheerful to say. He let go of Smarm and stepped away from the body.

“Don’t leave him in the doorway.” Byers struggled to pull the man further into the room.

Yves was right, Frohike thought. They were tired and irritable and the night wasn’t close to over.

“Don’t leave bodies in the middle of the floor.” Skinner returned with Jimmy over his shoulder. He followed his own advice and placed Jimmy close to the wall. Yves sat on the floor next to him.

Fletcher struggled as Skinner dragged Smarm to the floor near the right side of the bed. His throat was convulsing, producing a torrent of muffled noise. His eyes looked crazy with anger.

"Quick or slow?" Frohike bent over Fletcher, grabbed a corner of the duct tape and gave it a deliberate tug. He smiled at the sound of ripping adhesive and skin.

“OOOWWW! You sons of bitches!” Fletcher’s eyes squeezed shut. A tear dribbled from one eye.

“I'm surprised his skin isn't thicker.” Byers perched on a nearby footstool.

“You’re dead. All of you.” Fletcher pulled against the cuffs and tried to kick Frohike.

Frohike stepped back out of range. “You have to remember not to telegraph your moves, Morris. Something else you need to commit to memory: _Your enemy’s greatest weakness is your greatest strength._ ”

“Who said that?” Byers asked. “Machiavelli?”

“Melvin Frohike.” Frohike raised an eyebrow at Fletcher.

“Well if you’re done with the tour of the candy factory, why don’t you take Violet Beauregarde and the other Oompa Loompa and grab a shower.” Skinner hacked up the voice modifier and pulled away the latex mask. “God, that feels better. There’s a shower in there,” he pointed to a nearby door, “and one downstairs.”

“Dibs!” Frohike made it to the door of the upstairs bathroom first. He ignored Langly’s shrill complaints and the thumping on the stairs that sounded very much like Christopher Robin had just exited. He locked the door and began to strip.

The blue paint came off quickly, running in rivulets down his legs and into the drain with cartoonish swirls. Frohike let hot water beat against his face, and soaped until the water ran clear. 

He dried and dressed quickly. The vanity mirror showed he needed a shave, and his skin might have the slightest hint of blue, but that could be his imagination. Frohike made a face at himself, took a deep breath, and opened the bathroom door. He was ready for a conversation with Yves, and more than anything he wanted to get it over with. Some of her answers might make a difference in what they would have to do with Smarm and Fletcher. 

Skinner had removed Fletcher’s overcoat and suit jacket, replaced contacts with his usual wire rims, and was lounging in a recliner keeping watch over the bedroom. Mulder sat on the bed next to Fletcher and seemed to be absorbed in Fletcher's babbling. From her spot near Jimmy, Yves stared into space, her expression one of patient resignation. A few feet away from her, Doggett leaned against the wall, watching everyone. Langly and Byers were still absent.

“What’s this disc Jimmy was supposed to give me?” Mulder asked. “Some detailed file about people who’ve been brainwashed into thinking they were alien abductees?”

“This is what I meant to give you, Mr. Mulder.” Yves rummaged in Jimmy’s pocket. “Mr. Fletcher’s job description seems to be varied, but one of his most important tasks is disinformation. He’s really quite good at it.”

“My disc.” Fletcher sounded outraged. “It’s the only damn copy. I file-thirteened the backups. How was I supposed to know some little bimbo --”

“Watch your mouth,” Frohike knew it would be too easy to pop Fletcher in his present situation, but it was still a temptation. “That’s the pot calling the kettle.” He could hear Langly and Byers coming up the stairs, fighting like sisters.

“You need a special solvent,” Byers said. “I know something that will do it.”

“Yeah. Probably take my skin off in the process.” Langly slumped into the room. His face had improved, but he still looked like a blue raccoon.

“Glad you could make it.” Frohike pointed at an unoccupied portion of floor. “Sit. The troops are getting restless.”

“Oh man.“ Jimmy yawned, stretched and opened his eyes. “Guys? Yves? You okay?”

“So far, so good.” Frohike smiled at him.

“Let’s hear it.” Skinner looked around the room. “I want to know what there is about these three that warrants Bureau involvement. I’ve got permanent tattoo marks from Kirsch’s teeth in my ass now, but I’ve still got a job.”

“Ouch.” Mulder scrunched up his face. “At least now my own lips are clean.”

“Like you ever kissed up." Skinner grabbed the arms of his chair with a force that made the frame underneath squeak in protest.

“I have no cookies and milk to offer.” Yves dished out an impartial glare around the room. “Begin the bedtime story, Frohike, before they start wrestling.”

Frohike sat on the bottom corner of the bed farthest from Fletcher. “Our tale begins after our probing encounter charade with Morris. We are belly down on the ground, watching Mr. Morris Fletcher and his bunch of stormtroopers ride off into the sunset. Morris has dropped his clue -- nice job, by the way-- broadcasting disbelief bordering on fear when we mentioned the name _Romeo 61._ He figured it would be enough to encourage our further investigation. He was right.”

“Not _encourage_ — titillate,” Fletcher said sulkily. “Know your audience."

“When we found Romeo 61 and the list of dates with _successful_ listed after each one, for a few moments we wondered -- as Langly phrased it -- if we really had found the Holy Grail of Conspiracies. The Lockerbie crash, Olympics bombing, bombing of the Marine barracks in Lebanon, and others listed . . . many of the incidents could be traced directly to known terrorists. Three Mile Island and the Exxon Valdez just plain made no sense at all. But we’d had one of our buttons pushed, as Morris had planned. The idea that a single group of government sanctioned terrorists was responsible for the assassination of JFK sent our collective sense of paranoid reality right out the window.” 

Mulder sat on the edge of the bed across from him, hanging on every word. The others, except for Fletcher, seemed just as interested. Frohike nodded at Byers. “Take it.” 

Byers cleared his throat. “The thing is, we have a pretty good idea who the actual trigger man was in the assassination and it wasn’t Lee Harvey Oswald. It took us a long time to put a man to our profile, but eventually we arrived at a 98 percent certainty that a figure who has been lurking around the corners of Mulder’s life, and ours, to a certain degree, could very well have been responsible.” 

“Who was it?” Jimmy asked in a hushed voice. “And why get so excited if you’d already figured it out?” 

“We called him _Cancer Man_ for years,” Byers said, looking at Mulder. “Also known as C.G.B. Spender. He’s dead now, I believe.” 

“And if there’s a God, burning in hell,” Mulder said. “You think he shot JFK and you never told me?” 

“Lots of shit been hitting the fan, dude.” Langly polished his glasses on a piece of the bedspread. “The thing was, we’ve always hoped for hard proof, documents, and this was a new place to start looking. If a group like Romeo 61 did exist, Cancer Man would have been Grand Poobah of the order.” 

“Back up a bit,” Frohike said. “We found the nice website Fletcher made for us, got all excited and decided to go question him about it. Jimmy did some heavy foot-dragging. When I asked if he wanted to come along he said no, he had something to do.” 

Jimmy looked at Yves, shyly. “I never believed it. Not for a minute.” 

“I know.” Yves smiled sadly. “But you thought they did.” 

“Hell yes.” Jimmy frowned at Frohike. 

“Well I give you credit for awakening the worm of doubt, Jimmy. We calmed down after you left, and Langly wondered why a group that dished out assorted death and destruction would bother e-mailing us about a shadow government poobah dealing in alien technology. Wouldn’t they: a - take the technology if they wanted it, or b - swat Fletcher like the annoying stinging insect that he is.” Frohike smiled at Fletcher. “No offense, Morris.” 

“Then Byers made the observation that we’d had two too-good-to-be-true leads in less than 24 hours, what were the odds of that,” Langly said. “The odds are pretty high. Frohike made us go through each of the listed dates and run a couple of sims with all the information we could find on each event. Turns out there’s no possible way they could all be the work of one group. Turns out a couple of the dates couldn’t even be exactly matched to an obvious event ... like the terrorist killing of the Israeli athletes in Munich, September 5, 1972. Romeo 61 had it listed as 9-6-72.” 

“It was good bait, but it wouldn’t stay threaded on the hook,” Frohike buffed his fingernails against his vest. “You’ve got an ego problem, Morris. The earliest dated incident, the last on the list ... you just had to slip in something to show what a clever bastard you are.” 

“That and the name of the ‘terrorist’ group,” Byers said. “Langly hit on that right away. He wanted to know what kind of terrorists would call themselves something that sounded like a chat room Lothario.” 

Langly peered up over the edge of the bed and grinned at Fletcher. “I hit the romance and sex chat rooms, claiming to be a 23-year-old blonde, pregnant with the love-child of Romeo61, a Caucasian, 6-foot male with sandy blond hair, about 55 years old.” 

“I’m not that old,” Fletcher protested. 

“... did anyone know his real identity, and where I could find him. It didn’t take long.” Langly shook his finger at Fletcher. “Lola32, Debbi362436 and Desiree27 were very helpful. Especially Desiree.” Langly made a fanning motion with his hand. “She sounds so hot, Morris. Remember her? Little redhead, Las Vegas, you told her your real name was Tommy L. Jones? Imagine our surprise when we realized you were at the DefCon in Vegas when ...” 

“Langly.” Frohike shook his head. 

“You mentioned something about a date,” Mulder prodded. 

“Yeah. July 28, 1952 in Buenos Aires. Odd, we couldn’t find any significant occurrence on this day that would fit into the Romeo 61 scenario. Fortunately, we have Wonder Byers.” Frohike smiled around the room. “He’s a walking encyclopedia. Try two days earlier, the death of Eva Peron. Two days later, on the 28th, an entire country was in mourning.” 

“Don’t cry, Argentina,” Jimmy said, “Evita.” 

“It didn’t jell at the time,” Frohike nodded. “But it was an oddity, and although there were plenty of people who might have wanted her dead there’s absolutely no doubt that Eva’s death was natural.” 

“So why did Fletcher include it?” Skinner asked, entering the conversation for the first time. 

“We’ll come back to it.” Frohike took a second to bask in the knowledge that he was telling a good story and his audience was appreciative of the fact. “It was at this moment that Byers asked another crucial question. How had Fletcher, shot up to the gills with pentothal, managed to come around, get himself out of our alien stage-o-rama, mobilize the death star and throw up a road block? The whole thing was as staged as our rubber suit and vibrating probe.” 

“Frohike.” Mulder looked startled. “You’re the one who took my things?” 

“Payback, Mulder. You’ve got half my video collection under your couch.” Frohike continued rapidly. “Our next move was to pay Fletcher a call at his hotel. We wanted to hear what explanation he’d offer for Romeo 61, and why he’d been brought to our attention in the first place. We’d had a chance to evaluate what he’d told us about the Maheren Project, and it was looking thin.” 

“Bogus,” Langly contributed. “Science of the fictional variety. Photonic aggregate my butt cheeks.” 

“The scary thing was, he knew who we were,” Byers said. “He stood there and laughed at us, insulted us, compared us to the staff of Mad Magazine ...” 

“As if that wasn’t an honor,” Langly interrupted. 

“Then he launches into this whole Maheren Project disc stolen, I’m a dead man, can’t find the woman who ripped him off -- who just happens to look like Yves and uses an anagram for Lee Harvey Oswald as her alias -- and who Fletcher claims is a member of Romeo 61, this apolitical group of terrorists who kill, torture and steal for profit, or to create chaos,” Frohike continued. “Fletcher’s sitting there describing Ferengi and asking us to seriously believe Yves has enlarged ear lobes.” 

“We stepped out in the hallway after Fletcher dropped his big clue,” Byers said. He began walking back and forth between the foot of the bed and the doorway, looking from Fletcher to Smarm’s unconscious body on the floor. “The whole story wasn’t working for me. We’d agreed before going in not to let Fletcher know we suspected him.” 

“Langly and I were on the same page with Byers,” Frohike broke in. “Why would Yves rip Fletcher off, then e-mail us? It just didn’t make sense. If she’d wanted to expose him, she could have brought the disc straight to us, no tantalizing mention of Romeo 61 involved. Hard proof equals hard copy in our profession. I told the guys it wouldn’t hurt to play it out, maybe try to find Yves and, once and for all, solve two mysteries for the price and effort of one.” 

“We took Fletcher back to the office with us, and dropped red herrings about her phone account. Jimmy gave us the perfect chance to play our parts. He got all defensive, demanding to know if we’d ever seen Yves kill anybody,” Langly said. “He blurts out that we’re wrong about her.” 

“Thank you, Jimmy.” Yves had been listening with a brooding, unhappy look in her dark eyes. It made Frohike hope Jimmy would get around to giving her a comforting hug sooner or later. She looked like she could use a hug and shoulder to cry on. 

“It was perfect. It was the reason we decided to keep you out of the loop, Jimmy. Your acting skills aren’t as polished as ours,” Frohike said apologetically. 

“I’ve heard stories _I_ don’t believe about his acting skills,” Skinner said. “ _The bodies are piling up,_ Jimmy?” 

Jimmy had the grace to look embarrassed. “Sorry about that. I thought you were a murderer, sir.” 

“You gave us credibility. You contributed something important,” Frohike added. “Byers nearly caved in the apartment when you stormed out.” 

“It was such a relief, though,” Byers said. “I felt terrible deceiving you, Jimmy.” 

“What apartment?” Mulder asked. “Keep the story in a straight line, guys.” 

“Fletcher wanted to find Yves, and he suggested we start in his hotel lobby and try to track her car by hacking into security cameras. We were willing to do it his way. Langly stayed ready to lose the connection at any point along the route if it looked like we were going to be successful in the trace.” 

“What’s that mean?” Fletcher wriggled on the bed. “You knew where she lived all the time? I don’t believe it.” 

“Believe it, man. Frohike made me track her phone numbers a month ago. One was billed to Martha Stewart, the other to Rupert Murdoch. We had a look for any kind of rental in the area that was being billed to either of them. We found something. Some place,” Langly said carefully. 

“Imagine our surprise when the cameras led us to an apartment at Bishop Place.” Frohike stopped when he heard Smarm groan. “You should tape that guy, Skinner. He’s coming round.” 

“Glad to. Keep talking, you give good story, Frohike.” Skinner rolled Smarm over with his foot and began wrapping duct tape around the man’s hands. 

“If we had any doubts about Fletcher before we got to the apartment, they evaporated once we were inside.” Frohike looked at Langly’s still mostly blue face and grinned. “The dye job on Langly. Yves would never have set that up. She’d have seamless electronic surveillance in her place.” He nodded in her direction. “You did, too. A nice job. It took me a while to find everything.” 

“You broke into my place? When?” Yves’ face lost the sorrow. She was getting pissed. 

That was more healthy, Frohike thought. “Not until tonight. We needed to use your stuff. And very cool stuff it is.” 

“Back to the apartment.” Doggett growled. “Your ego seems a match for Fletcher’s, Frohike. Finish the damn story so I can get back to real life sometime soon.” 

“The dye was wrong, the bra was wrong, the clothes were wrong, and the receipt from Lucerne Financial recording the multimillion dollar payment from Fenix Atlantic Corporation was way wrong.” Frohike grinned and began smoothing the leather on his gloves. “We’d just watched Jimmy storm out after his big speech about dealing with a man who lies for a living, then Langly conveniently finds this document that shouts even louder at us that Fletcher thinks he’s playing us like violins, and he’s getting his rocks off on the whole scam.” 

“I hate all of you,” Fletcher said, turning his head to stare at the wall. “You’ll all be sorry.” 

“What about the bra?” Mulder asked. “Don’t tease me, Frohike.” 

“Sorry. It was a nice bra, but it was a size 36D. I’m betting you picked out the clothes for the setup in the apartment, Fletcher. Your eyes are bigger than your ...” Frohike coughed, rolled his eyes and continued. “Unless I’m getting senile, Yves wears a 34C. And none of those clothes looked like anything I’ve ever seen her wear.” 

“You can tell her bra size by looking at her?” Jimmy didn’t want to ask, but couldn’t help himself. “Yves?” 

Her skin was turning rose under the smooth coffee color of her cheeks. “34C,” she said. “You’re a dirty old man, Frohike.” 

“I prefer the term experienced, my dear.” Frohike realized he was enjoying the Fletcher torment a tad too much, but couldn’t make himself quit poking at the big weasel. “We didn’t find leather, either. I’m not sure what that says about him.” 

“I said you weren’t smart,” Jimmy’s voice was contrite. “I didn’t trust you.” 

“You did good, kid. You trusted your gut and stood by your conviction. You’ve got nothing to apologize for, Jimmy.” Frohike walked to the foot of the bed and stared down at Fletcher’s mulish face. “Did you really think Fenix (spelled f-e-n-i-x) Atlantic wouldn’t jump up and kick us between the eyes?” 

Mulder started to laugh. “Oh my god. What a condescending asshole.” 

“Explain it to me in words of one to two syllables,” Skinner said. “Now.” 

“It’s an anagram,” Yves said slowly. “Spell it with one extra ‘t’, and you’ve got _an X-File antic._ ” 

“Son of a bitch.” Doggett threw his hands up. “Does everything in the universe come back to the damn X-Files?” 

“Yup.” Mulder reached over and patted Fletcher’s cheek. “You really screwed yourself. Don’t mess with my boys.” 

“Good advice,” Frohike said. “We told Fletcher we needed to get our gear together and we’d be back for him around 8. We dropped him at his hotel and went to work. Swiss banks aren’t the easiest hack in the world, but Langly was able to verify that the account had been opened in the name of ... Fenix Atlantic Corporation. Not Yves Adele Harlow or Romeo 61. He also found out that Fenix is a shell, with a fictional board of directors who all live in Nevada.” 

“What a surprise,” Skinner said. 

“Yeah. We tried to get hold of you, Mulder, but you weren’t answering.” 

“Another dead cell phone.” Mulder shrugged. “I got your message on the machine when I returned from meeting Jimmy.” 

“You met Jimmy?” Frohike looked between them. 

“Short story, but later,” Mulder said. 

“Okay. Skinner graciously consented to break into Yves’ apartment with us, and be the test subject in the Morris Fletcher look-alike contest,” Frohike continued. 

“And I had to be home when you called,” Doggett shook his head. “I have to be crazy.” 

“I’m beginning to have my suspicions,” Mulder laughed. “I must say, you’re a good man to go funky poaching with, Doggett.” 

Doggett’s face froze in an expression of distaste. “Do me a favor, Mulder. Never explain that term to me. Or use it again in my presence.” 

“So you broke into my place and figured out how to use the prosthesis modeler? I’m impressed, boys.” Yves raised her eyebrows and fixed Frohike with a stare. “You’re forcing me to do some significant reevaluation about your character and ability.” 

Frohike took a bow. It had been obvious, but it was nice to hear her admit their kung foo was the best. “The worst part of the operation was sitting in the van outside the Fenix Atlantic warehouse, listening to Fletcher trying to feed us the clues. They handed everything up on a platter to Langly, on line. Then Fletcher spends ten minutes insulting and teasing Langly about his blue face -- like we hadn’t figured out exactly why that booby trap had been planted in the apartment. Fletcher wanted to lead us, in easy stages, toward a foolproof method of getting inside ... that he thought we would think was the result of our own cleverness. It was painful. We had to sit there and take it, and sell the same bull back to him. By the way, Byers ... you’re getting to be a great actor. ‘Chroma-key ... that’s the answer!’ All big-eyed and innocent, full of discovery. You killed me. I wanted to applaud.” 

“Your turn to bow Byers,” Mulder said. 

“It was nothing.” Byers sketched a nod with his head. “I knew we could swing the facial recognition software. But we still didn’t know exactly why Fletcher wanted us down there. We figured he was after Yves, but there was still a possibility that he might want to rip off his own people. We couldn’t rule that out, and we couldn’t pass on the chance.” 

“When Fletcher told us he was staying in the van ... well, chances we were headed for the mother lode of useful information seemed to increase. We had our backup plan in motion, and we knew Big Brother was watching. We went in.” Frohike reached down and tickled the bottom of Fletcher’s foot. “Are you getting all this, Mr. Majestic? Mr. MIB?” 

“Don’t _do_ that, you nasty little dwarf.” Fletcher tried to retract his feet. 

“I came up behind him just in time to see you three disappearing through the gate, and hear Fletcher say “Three blue mice, headed toward the cheese” into his cell phone. It was the last thing he said for a while,” Skinner said with some satisfaction. “Agent Doggett and I stripped him down, trussed him up, and stuffed him in the trunk of my car. We’d just finished when Mulder drove up, and cautioned us there was a convoy headed in our direction. I greeted them as Fletcher, and we followed you into the warehouse.”

“Then you showed up, Jimmy. Mulder and I nearly had to bounce your butt out of there,” Doggett said. “Who was the little squid with you?”

“Kimmy. But Yves did it for you.” Jimmy tipped his head and smiled at her with his best harmless puppy dog expression. “She was willing to sacrifice herself ...”

Frohike rolled his eyes. “And see how useful that was.”

“It worked out okay, Frohike. Give her some credit,” Jimmy insisted.

“I give her credit.” Frohike turned away from Fletcher and faced Yves. “Time to belly up to the bar, Yves, and put your money down. We’ve already got a pretty good idea what you are, where you came from, and what you’ve been doing.”

“Thanks in part to Fletcher’s smug clue about Eva Peron,” Byers said. “’A man of action is one who triumphs _over_ the rest. A woman of action is one who triumphs _for_ the rest.’ All that money you’ve been liberating. It’s going to help women and children, orphans, poor families ... isn’t it?”

“Yves.” Jimmy was glowing. “I knew it. I knew it. Why didn’t you just tell us?”

“You make it sound so easy.” Yves wrapped her arms around her legs and rested her chin on her knees. “Maybe if the story had been all mine, I would have told you. How did you find out?” 

“I took a look at your computer,” Langly said. “Only a quick one,” he added as she directed a killer look his way. “Hey, you’ve seen ours, it was only fair we should see yours. Anyway, you have a pretty scary setup so I only peeked. In and out, with a couple of bits we could backtrace from our end.”

“I guess I’ve done the same thing to you.” Yves looked at Skinner. “You still have the trank gun?”

“Yeah.” Skinner nodded, pointing to Fletcher’s overcoat.

“Would you mind?” Yves motioned toward Fletcher. “I don’t believe he’s on a need to know basis.”

“It would be a pleasure.” Skinner found the gun and left his seat.

“Don’t you dare.” Fletcher began to thrash. “No ...” The hiss of the gun left him limp and quiet, his hands flopping bonelessly over the cuffs.

“I’m guessing your father was KGB.” Frohike met her eyes across the room, and for the first time he saw the shadow of a smile.

“You are a charming and annoying man, Melvin Frohike.”

“You left out brilliant.” Frohike ignored the various noises that emerged from Mulder, Langly and Skinner. “So tell us.”

“They don’t really want me at all,” Yves said. “They want my father. Dmitri. He never told me his full birth name. He invented the prosthesis modeler, their compressed air weapons, and so much more. As you say, father worked for the KGB. He also worked, at various times, for MI6, the CIA, and others.”

“Free agent?” Skinner shook his head. “I’ve never heard of anyone who crossed the line that often.”

“There has never been anyone like Dmitri.” Yves resumed staring at an invisible point in the air. “Until I was 12, I thought my father had died in a rail accident shortly after my birth. Mother raised me, in London. I never missed having a father. Mother was beautiful, talented. She filled my life with music, literature, and art. When I got old enough to think about it, and compare my life with the few other children I knew near my own age, I thought we must be rich, and mother eccentric and smart enough to prefer home schooling. I didn’t mind the difference. Every day was an adventure.”

“It sounds wonderful,” Jimmy said softly.

“I loved her very much.” Yves bit her lip. “When I got older, I also started wondering about mother’s monthly trips alone. She said she was visiting a friend in a retirement home, and I knew she had to take a train to get there. But she never told me the friend’s name. Since we had no family that I knew of, I used to fantasize mother had a crazy brother or sister that her sense of duty forced her to visit. I was reading Bronte at the time.”

“She was visiting your father?” Frohike saw her nod.

“I think so. When I was 12, she was killed in a rail accident, returning to London. Two of mother’s woman friends took care of me for the next week. When they didn’t think I could hear, they would comment on the cruel irony of losing both parents in the same manner, years apart, and wondering what would become of me, and who would take care of the finances. Mother’s estate was, it turned out, substantial.

“They took care of the funeral arrangements. The night after the funeral one of them asked me if I’d like to live with her until I was old enough to care for myself. She was a nice woman, truly I don’t think her offer was motivated by financial considerations. I told her I’d sleep on it.”

Smarm groaned again and rolled over. Yves’ eyes and jawline hardened as she looked toward him. “When I woke up again, I wasn’t in London anymore. I was on a yacht, with a man who claimed to be my father. It took me time to understand, and accept. The years that followed were every bit as rich and varied as the time I had with mother, but on a far broader scale. We went around the world and back again. When I was old enough to appreciate the facts, father told me about his life in the select community of what he called special government agents. He never used the word spy; father thought it was vulgar and imprecise. He felt ‘spy’ implied a voyeuristic act, while what he and most of his peers did was active. The men he knew didn’t just tour the orchard, they raked, weeded, pruned, and occasionally burned entire stands of trees.”

“Was he still active while you were with him?” Doggett asked.

“No.” Yves shook her head. “He’d removed himself from the business before mother’s death. The world was changing, he told me, and not for the better. Men who should have known better, powerful men who told him what to do, were putting the entire world at risk. The face on the opposite side of the power coin was responsibility, father used to tell me. He made a decision, packed his toys, and went into hiding. He was fortunate to be one of a very few clever enough to pull it off. The prosthesis modeler was a useful tool in his ability to remain low profile. Unfortunately, others knew the modeler existed, and father had been working on a significant piece of software for the Russians when he evaporated.”

“That’s where you learned your hacking skills,” Langly said. “He must have been good. I wish I could meet your father.”

“You and so many others.” Yves laughed, a sound suspiciously like a sob. “Failing that, they’d like to have his inventions and papers. I haven’t seen father for three years now. They shot him and he nearly died. When he was well enough to leave, he told me goodbye. He’s an old man. If he isn’t dead, he’s close. They should just let him go.”

“That’s what Smarm is after? You and the toys?” Frohike asked.

“Smarm? Him?” Yves smiled. “That’s a good name for him. I didn’t recognize him as one of the many men father pointed out over the years, but his type is obvious. Yes, he’ll take as much as he can get. Me, the equipment, any clue where my father might have gone.”

“How did you hear about Fletcher in the first place?” Langly asked. “That’s been bothering me.”

“Street rumor.” Yves looked toward Mulder. “It was a stupid, impetuous, non-lucrative endeavor. I suspect Smarm may have planted other such tidbits, in the hope I would eventually go after one of them.”

“What I’m still wondering is how you knew so much about her, Frohike,” Byers said. He’d been absentmindedly stroking his beard and listening to Yves with a frown of concentration.

“And we still don’t know her real name, or what’s up with the Lee Harvey Oswald thing,” Langly chimed in.

“I’m still surprised he remembered my face,” Yves said, shooting a haughty look in Frohike’s direction. “Father insisted I obtain legal American citizenship, under my birth name. He knew it was a risk, but wanted me here clean. It was at the swearing in ceremony. I noticed a garden gnome leering at me. I think that’s when he first pegged my brassiere size.”

Frohike grinned and waggled an eyebrow. “You were wearing a white knit turtleneck and a little black skirt. Very nice. And I remembered your face perfectly. Your legs, too. Very nice.”

“What were you doing there, Frohike?” Jimmy asked.

“I was with a friend who was going through the process, an ex-Cuban woman.”

“Not ...?” Byers looked at him, interested.

“No.” Frohike said, shortly. “I checked the register after the ceremony, just idle curiosity.”

“You are a dirty old man, Frohike.” Mulder had found a pen somewhere and was writing on Fletcher’s leg. “And her name is?”

“Eva. My name is Eva Lee Harolds.” Yves laughed at their varied expressions, a moment of real humor lifting the stress lines around her mouth and making her look young, beautiful and carefree.

She needed more moments like this, Frohike thought, watching the joy fade too quickly.

“Father was a fiend for word games. He never spoke about mother much, but he told me she’d named me on her own, and he teased her later about hitting on a near perfect anagram for a famous scapegoat. He said it had brought him up short. The Oswald frame was one of the turning points in his career.”

“He knew it was a frame?” Byers leaned forward, excited. “What did he know?”

“He was working for the KGB when Oswald applied for Soviet citizenship. Oswald was quite a joke among them, this foolish Americanski trying to defect to the USSR. It wasn’t father’s department, but his curiosity was boundless. He tagged along on one of the first interviews another agent did with Oswald. Tthey posed as journalists seeking information about his grand intention.

“Dmitri said Oswald was no killer, just another lost citizen looking for a perfect country that didn’t exist. Father moved on to other things, and probably wouldn’t have thought of Oswald again except for an overheard conversation between two agents some months later. Competition from “the other place” was interested in Oswald.”

“CIA?” Byers shook his head. “Surely there was no direct communication with the KGB.”

Yves arched her eyebrows. “Dmitri said there’d been a directive to begin applying pressures to Oswald, to encourage him to return to America. Normally, father said, such a directive was enforced with the finesse of a tap-dancing elephant. Oswald’s case was handled by the invisible ones.”

“The invisible ones?” Skinner sounded intrigued. “Some division of the KGB we’ve never heard of?”

“Not KGB. I suspect they’re the Russian equivalent of Mr. Morris Fletcher,” Yves said. “Father hated them.”

“You’re suggesting that someone in America planned in advance to use Oswald,” Frohike said.

Yves shrugged. “Father thought so. It turned into one of his life’s obsessions, to never be used again. The time I lived with him he spent atoning for things he’d done in his youth. There were clinics, nursing schools, orphanages, food banks, housing projects ... in various parts of the world, not just Russia, although Dmitri’s heart bled for his native soil. When he left, I promised to carry on for him. I have. It’s expensive.”

“Whew.” Doggett broke the lengthening silence. “That’s all interesting, and I think I’m glad that we saved your butts ... what are we going to do with the bodies now?”

“I can’t wait to hear your answer, Frohike.” Skinner crossed his legs and swung one foot idly. “There’s no way I’m taking either of them back to the bureau.”

“Probably not a good idea,” Frohike agreed. He looked toward Mulder. “What the hell are you doing with Fletcher’s leg, you pervert?”

Mulder looked up and grinned. “Anagrams. How many words can you make from Morris Fletcher? I’ve already got thirteen.”

“It’s always up to me,” Frohike grumbled. “I’ve got an idea, but Yves may not like it.”

“I’m sure I won’t.” Yves stood, a defensive reaction. “What do you have in mind?”

Frohike grinned what he hoped was his most disarming, charming grin. “It strikes me that we’ve got a perfectly good brainwasher right here. Fletcher could enroll Smarm in one of his little Reticulan Clinics. That should take care of his credibility, maybe his sanity.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Mulder said. “Look at me.”

“It should work,” Skinner and Doggett said, together.

“How are you going to talk Fletcher into cooperating?” Langly got off the floor and stretched. “He strikes me as the backbiting traitor type.”

“Yeah. Well, that’s the part Yves won’t like.” No use putting it off, Frohike thought. “I need my bag from the car. And I need you to copy that disc, Langly.”

“I’ll get your bag,” Doggett offered. “*I need some air. I probably won’t keep walking.”

“Thanks. I’ll come with.” Frohike followed him down the stairs. He stopped Doggett by the front door. “I know this is strange stuff for you. I just want to say how much we appreciate your help.”

“If you really appreciate it, think about changing your life-style.” Doggett opened the door. “You may have lived a full life, but your friends could still put in decades if they moved to the normal side of the road.”

“Hey! I could still put in decades ... at least a couple.” This guy definitely wasn’t a Mulder clone, Frohike thought. Nice enough, and potentially easy to guilt into helping out. Frohike wondered if Doggett was more imaginative than they’d first thought. 

“So what’s the plan have to do with Yves?” Doggett asked casually as he reached into the car for Frohike’s bag.

“I’d better tell her first. She’s really going to hate it.”

Yves looked at the black satin negligee, at Frohike’s face, then back at the satin.

“You are out of your tiny little mind,” she said calmly. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you set the whole thing up, Fletcher, Smarm, the rescue ... just so you could suggest this ... this ... “

“Way to save your keister?” Frohike shrugged. “If you’ve got a better idea, let’s hear it.”

“I like this one,” Mulder said. He’d stopped writing on Fletcher’s leg, which now looked, from a distance, as if it belonged to a tattooed South Sea Islander.

“I wouldn’t do it,” Doggett said helpfully. “We could shoot both of them in the head.”

Everyone in the room swivelled in unison, staring.

“Just kidding,” he said, in the same tone of voice.

“I don’t think the A-Team ever stooped this low,” Jimmy complained.

“Jimmy.” Yves grimaced. “Do you mind taking everyone downstairs for a bit? I would really appreciate it.”

“We can’t stay?” Mulder tossed his pen across the room, nearly hitting Skinner. “All the risk, none of the reward. My life has been a series of disappointments.”

“Out.” Jimmy stood by the door and gestured. “You’re the luckiest man I know, agent Mulder. Now move your ass out of here.”

“Lucky? Lucky?” Mulder followed Langly and Byers out of the bedroom, bitching his way down the stairs. 

Skinner paused in the doorway, looked at Fletcher, then at the bit of black satin Yves had grabbed from Frohike’s hand. “I’d do it while he was still unconscious,” he said, grinning only slightly. “The fact he can’t remember will really get his goat.”

“Frohike.” Jimmy’s hand was on the knob, ready to shut the door behind him. “You be nice to her. If she isn’t completely okay when she comes out of here, I’m going to feed you bits of your favorite digital camera,” he said with perfect calm. “Comprender?”

“Si, Jimmy. She’ll be fine.”

It was the easiest photo shoot of his life. He took a limited number of photos, none of them showed Yves’ full face. When Frohike finally talked her into straddling Fletcher, with the disc between her teeth, bending over so her hair fell to one side like a swath of black satin, her mouth nearly touching Fletcher’s with the disc resting on his lower lip ...

“That’s the one.” Frohike looked at the image preview and laughed out loud. “He has decent taste in lingerie.”

“The top’s a bit big,” Yves had managed to keep the straps more or less on her shoulders. “If you’re looking at my legs ...”

“I’ve seen your legs. Our work here is done, you can get dressed.” 

“Smarm’s awake,” Yves said as she climbed off the bed. “He’s been listening.”

“Oh well,” Frohike shrugged. “With any luck, this will work out for us.”

“With any luck.” She paused in the bathroom door. “Remind me, when I’m fully dressed, to kiss you again.”

“Ooohh. Don’t make promises, sugar.” Frohike winked at her, feeling absurdly euphoric at the thought they could return home without fear any the night’s activities might return to haunt them.

“Eva. My name is Eva.” She disappeared into the bathroom.

They watched NASCAR races in the bedroom until Fletcher woke up. Langly sat in one corner, working on his laptop, glancing infrequently at the television. He’d made two duplicates of the disc, although Frohike hadn’t let anyone else know there was more than one. Fletcher’s original was safe in Mulder’s pocket.

Smarm had recovered enough to be verbally threatening, so they’d let Jimmy slap duct tape on his mouth.

Yves and Jimmy sat side by side now, with their backs against the base of the bed, ostensibly watching television. Frohike suspected they were enjoying a moment of simple, uncomplicated physical proximity. 

“Oh shit.” Fletcher groaned and yanked feebly on the cuffs. “Where am I?”

“We’re on.” Skinner nodded to Doggett. Frohike had wanted to make the pitch, but he’d been overruled by the majority, who agreed that Skinner and Doggett had higher scores on the scary dude scale.

“Mr. Fletcher.” Doggett’s eyes narrowed to cold slits. He sat down on one side of Fletcher, holding his gun in one hand, caressing the barrel with the other. “We need to talk.”

“Mr. Fletcher.” Skinner landed with a large bounce on Fletcher’s other side. He held a glossy print and a cigarette lighter, which he flicked on a few inches from Fletcher’s nose.

“Oww!!” Fletcher looked wildly between them. “What the hell is going on? You can’t ...”

“Oh. I think we can.” Skinner held the print in front of Fletcher’s eyes. “We know you know who we are. But now we know who you are. Your wife, Joanne. Your two children. Your special job. We’re not the bad guys, here.”

“We’ll drive you back to your hotel,” Doggett said, resting his gun against Fletcher’s kneecap. “We’ll give you your disc back.”

“This is so lame. What do you want?” Fletcher looked beyond his tormenters toward Frohike, and Yves standing behind him. “What do you want?”

“We’ve got a disposal dilemma,” Skinner said cheerfully. “Can you think of a way to help out?”

“That went well.” Frohike leaned against the wall near the front door, and felt exhaustion crawl up his legs. 

“I think so.” Skinner sighed. “You owe me a big one, Frohike. Doggett and I will take them to Fletcher’s hotel. You want to make sure we leave in one piece?”

“Yeah. I’m sending Jimmy, Yves, Langly and Byers back to the office. Yves is going to stay there tonight, and they’re going to sweep the place -- just in case. Mulder and I will tail you to the hotel. Then you two can tail us back to pick up his car near Fenix.” Frohike felt a yawn erupt. “Damn. I’m tired.”

“And you had a shower. I’ve still got bits of plastic sticking to my hair.”

“Mr. Skinner.” Yves came down the stairs, followed closely by Jimmy. “Thank you. If there’s ever anything I can do for you ...”

“You’re welcome, Eva. I hope it works out. For all our sakes,” Skinner said, smiling at her. “There is something you can do for me.”

“Yes?” Yves raised an eyebrow.

“Promise you’ll never let Jimmy impersonate me again.”

She smiled, glowing with relief and amusement. “I promise.”

“Get in the car,” Frohike said. “They’ll be bringing Fletcher and Smarm out.”

“Frohike.” Yves bent over and kissed him full on the mouth. “Thank you.”

No tongue, Frohike thought, but that little nip on the lower lip had been interesting. He grinned at the outrage on Jimmy’s face. “It was a very platonic gesture, Jimmy.”

“Yeah. Right. Almost sisterly,” Skinner said with a bark of laughter. “Let’s get out of here. I just know there are more important things going on in the real world.”

“More important than a blackmail scam? You mean like life, death and birth?”

“I do.” Skinner caught his quick look up the stairway as Mulder appeared, carrying Smarm. “I’m worried about her.”

“Scully? Me too.” Frohike heard the uncharacteristic emotion in Skinner’s voice. “We’re here if she needs us. If you need us. Anytime. Any place. Anything.”

Skinner grabbed his shoulder for a moment, then went through the front door after Yves and Jimmy.

“Coming through.” Mulder breezed past, knocking Smarm’s head against the door jamb. “Ooops.”

Langly and Byers came next, escorting Morris Fletcher down the stairs. He was walking, but wobbly, and his hands were still cuffed. 

“I never want to see your face, or hear your name again, Melvin,” Fletcher snarled as he tripped down the last stair. “That goes for the rest of the losers you hang out with.”

“Okay by me.” Frohike locked the front door and pulled it shut as they left. “No hurt feelings here, Morris.”

“And I’m not sending any more stories your way. Ever.” Fletcher was still snarling as they put him into the car. “And I’m canceling my subscriptions.”

“Subscriptions?” It might be interesting to find where they were being sent to, Frohike thought.

“All eight of them.” Fletcher’s head disappeared. “I hate all of you.”

Frohike got into Skinner’s car. Mulder was behind the driver’s wheel again. “Go to the office first,” he said.

They rolled down the driveway slowly. Frohike could see the headlights of Doggett’s car shine in the side mirror and felt oddly comforted. If he judged himself by the quality of people who liked him, and the quality of the people who hated him, he was a monumental success.

“I’m good,” he said to Mulder. “I mean, really good.”

“I know.” Mulder laughed. “I want to grow up to be just like you. Can I see the photos now?”

“No!” Jimmy and Yves answered from the back seat.

“Sorry, man.” Frohike looked over his shoulder. Jimmy was sitting on the hump, shielding Yves from the proximity of Smarm. He winked at Yves, then turned his eyes forward again. “So, Mulder, have you found a job yet ...?”

“Is that an offer?” Mulder turned on the radio and began switching between stations. He stopped when he found an old CCR song. “I love this. _Let the midnight special …_ ” he crooned at the top of his lungs.

“Make him stop,” Jimmy begged, from the back seat. “It’s really been a long night.”

Mulder turned the sound up a notch. “ _Shine your ever-loving light on me …_ ”

Frohike reached over and turned the radio down. “So Mulder, have you had time to miss the X-Files? Would you like to see something really scary ...”

“NO!”

Frohike was sure the vote would have been unanimous, if Smarm’s mouth had been untaped. He reached for the radio and cruised for a moment. He stopped when he heard a familiar chorus, not because he particularly liked the song, but because he had a sudden notion they needed to hear the end.

“ _Angels never know it's time, To close the book and gracefully decline, The song has found a tale …_ ” 

They were right back at Genesis. Some kind of message there, Frohike thought as they drove into the night.


End file.
